


Second Left And Up

by SailorFish



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (and just general stupidity), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Magical Girls, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Sports, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Crack, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Warning: silliness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1963986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorFish/pseuds/SailorFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five universes where Thorin was at Bilbo’s service, and one universe where Bilbo was at his.</p><p>Otherwise known as Put In A Bunch Of AUs In One Fic And Stir. (Spoilers for what the AUs are in the tags!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Don’t take another step!”

Bilbo makes sure his voice rings out, loud and clear. He also makes sure his hands are as steady as his voice; the rifle’s barrel does not waver as it points right between the eyes of the dark-haired man in front of him, the one who stands slightly in front of his companions. Bilbo can take them, no problem. They are on the other side of the (admittedly small) fence after all, and it will take them several precious seconds to climb over it, or to barrel through the gate. Plenty of time. Besides, the man Bilbo’s rifle is pointing at holds only a wooden club of some sort. The much larger fellow looming next to him may prove a problem, but slung around that one’s shoulders is the arm of another: an older, injured man whose eyes are glazed with fever. The sick one will slow the giant down, enough for Bilbo to shoot first one and then the other and then the third, these trespassers on his refuge. Yeah, Bilbo can take them.

Except that he’s promised himself he wouldn’t shoot the living.

So Bilbo hesitates, and curses himself even as he does. He’s being a meek, sentimental fool, he knows, and his dithering gives the dark-haired man time enough to throw down his club and put his hands in the air.

“Please don’t shoot,” the man says quietly, in English.

Bilbo startles. He hasn’t heard English at all, of course, for over a year now, and the unfamiliar language gives him pause.

“You-- what--” he says, ever eloquent, and barely suppresses the instinctive wince at the strong German accent coloring his words. But the other man’s English hadn’t been that of a native speaker either, as far as he could tell.

“We’ve been told of a doctor around here,” continues the foreigner. “One who treats others in exchange for supplies. Is that you?”

There’s no way Bilbo can deny it, no matter how much he wishes to. His little cottage is hard to find, tucked away in a mountain valley as it is. There is no longer a direct road leading to it from Tweng, the nearest town, as there had been back when this place had been a relative’s summer home instead of his refuge. The surviving townspeople helped destroy the road themselves, granting him the isolation he desired in exchange for his medical expertise. And now these strangers show up at his doorstep? Either the townspeople had been very specific in their instructions, or these men have combed the whole mountain for him.

Determination burns bright and fierce in the eyes of the dark-haired man in front of him. His tall companion does not seem to favor any expression, but his grip on the third man is tender. Bilbo can equally well imagine it being either the townspeople, or a thorough search, or both. Regardless, they are here now, and it would have been a difficult journey, even more so with their injured friend. There is no chance these men are not certain of the answer to their question.

So Bilbo nods, resignedly. “That _is_ me, yes, but--”

“Then you can help us!” the man says. “Our friend is injured, and we have plenty of supplies of all kinds-- batteries, some chocolate, o--”

“-- _but_ I only treat the living.”

There is a beat of silence, and then the dark-haired man growls low, deep in his throat. Bilbo’s fingers clench tighter around his rifle, but it is not this one that worries him. No, it is his companion: the giant takes several threatening steps towards the gate, dragging the injured man along as though he weighs nothing. For the first time, Bilbo notices the knuckledusters the man wears. He’s never heard of anyone _punching_ the Dead’s heads in and Bilbo concludes they must be for the living. He swallows convulsively.

“I _told_ you,” Bilbo repeats, in English this time, as though speaking a language the strangers understand might save him. “Not another step!”

The giant doesn’t look ready to listen, but luckily his companion does.

“ _Dwalin!_ ” the man growl, followed by a short sentence in their native tongue. He punctuates it with a ferocious glare, and that, along with his frustrated huff, stops the taller man in his tracks, finally, right at the gate. Bilbo spends a second desperately wishing he had asked someone from town to rebuild his fence -- it barely reaches the giant’s waist -- but nevertheless his fingers relax minutely. But the dark-haired man is not finished, and he turns an even fiercer look towards Bilbo himself.

“I ask you to excuse Dwalin,” he says, and his words do not at all match the expression on his face. “His brother is ill... but he is not one of the Dead!”

At that, Bilbo can’t help his snort of disbelief. “His arm is dripping blood, and his eyes and skin show his fever. He’s been bit! It’s difficult, I know, but you’re going to have to accept it sooner not later--”

“ _He wasn’t bit!_ It was from a gang of robbers-- Live robbers. Doctor, _please_ , if you just looked at him you’d see--”

Whatever else the man is saying, it is drowned out by the sudden roaring in Bilbo’s ears. He shakes his head vigorously, an answer to the plea and a futile attempt to dispel the bloody images that cloud his vision at the stranger’s words. _Herr Doktor, please, please._ The ragged faces of the dead press upon him, patients he had to leave behind in their mad flight from Vienna's main hospital, and even worse, the faces of his co-workers, so many of them killed by those they tried to help…

Twelve of them had fought their way out of the hospital together, in those bloodsoaked last days when they had realized they had no cure for an infection that brought the dead back to roam and kill. Of those, five had been killed by the patients they had tried to cure: Stefan, as dark-haired as the stranger and bit by a woman he was helping because she resembled his sister; Markus and Isabelle, both killed while attending to children, children who _had only been scratched, please, doctors, please_ ; Alev, fresh out of university, her bright headscarf stained first with the blood of the old man whose shoulder she was binding and then, not ten minutes later, with her own; Lisa, the only nurse amongst them and now a regular feature in Bilbo’s worst nightmares, bit while giving CPR…

And the other six are dead too now, and Bilbo is the only one left, and he will _not_ go the way of the others, killed by their oath and their empathy, and he blinks desperately, blinks away Stefan’s face from where the stranger’s should be. Where the stranger’s _is_ , he reminds himself, savagely banishing the memories that overwhelm him to the furthest corners of his mind.

His vision clears and he sees both men are staring at him gravely, their faces almost as white as their barely conscious companion. The giant has taken several steps back, until he is almost level with the dark-haired stranger, his injured brother shoved further behind him still. Bilbo takes great, shuddering breaths. This is not the time to have a panic attack, he tells himself. Not if he wants to keep his life. His hands steady around the rifle, stilling the trembling, wavering barrel that had been the cause of the foreigners’ paleness.

“Please leave,” Bilbo croaks. “I will not treat him. Please leave.”

There is a long moment of stillness as the two strangers exchange sidelong glances. Bright, pitiful hope flares in his chest; hope that they will listen and he can go back to his quiet, peaceful life. But then both men’s faces harden. They do not look inclined in the least to follow Bilbo’s instructions-- his pleas. Of course. He should have known-- none of them have been left sane in this calamity, and those with bit companions even less than the rest of them.

They cannot technically _make_ him work on a patient-- but a glance at the knuckledusters tells him they will try.

The black-haired man has opened his mouth once more -- to argue, to bully -- but Bilbo will show them he’s serious. So his grip tightens around the rifle as he releases the safety. Both strangers’ eyes widen. One warning shot, he’ll give them that at least, and then he’ll go for the head, just as he’s been forced to learn.

Quick, deep breath.

His fingers squeeze the trigger--

“ _Stop!!_ ”

It is a high, childish scream, and could not possibly come from either one of the tall men in front of him. Bilbo jerks from the suddenness of it, but his hands continue their planned motion and he shoots. It’s off-- instead of missing the black-haired man entirely, it grazes his shoulder.

But neither the one shooting nor the one shot notice-- their gazes have snapped to the source of the noise.

It is indeed a child who had screamed, and though his rifle stays steady, Bilbo sucks in a sharp breath. The child, a black-haired blur, tumbles out of one of the trees that line the path, and in a second, is followed by a slightly bigger blur. This one is blond. Bilbo gapes.

The children rush over, heedless of their black-haired relative’s (for they have to be related, Bilbo realizes dimly: the smaller child shares the hair and the bigger the nose) snapped-together eyebrows. The glare the man gives them is as fierce as the one he had given the doctor before, and he barks at them in their own language harshly, grabbing at them. But they duck and weave out of his grasp to run as close to the gate as they can. There, they peer up at Bilbo with beseeching eyes and shout to him.

“Please not shoot my uncle!” appeals the older, blond boy in fervent, if slightly broken English. “He wants only help Balin. Please help Balin!”

The younger boy nods vigorously as though he understands and agrees, but from his lips tumbles a waterfall of words in his own language that the stunned Bilbo cannot even begin to decipher. In any case, this is enough for the children’s uncle, and the man finally succeeds in shoving the boys behind him.

Behind him-- and thus towards the injured man, still slumped against his companion and too dazed from sickness to have said a word this whole time.

But the uncle does not glance back even once, concentrating his attention instead on Bilbo’s rifle and Bilbo himself. And that, _that_ , not the words of the adults nor the children, is why Bilbo finally puts down his weapon.

He’s seen adults go to the grave insisting their companions were not bitten, and he’s seen adults go to the grave insisting the same was true of their children. But never, in all the tragedies and careless mistakes he’s witnessed, has he seen an adult allow their child anywhere near someone who was bit. Not when there was even the slightest, tiniest possibility of it.

And so Bilbo lowers his rifle and lets out a heavy breath.

In front of him, the two strangers exchange wary, cautious glances, their frowns lightening only slightly. But the boys beam at him from around their uncle’s back. Bilbo wishes for his sudden headache to go away, and also wishes he shared the children’s determined optimism, still shining brightly on their faces for all their expertise at avoiding grasping hands.

“Alright,” he hears himself say instead. “I will unlock the gate and you can bring him in. I will take a look at his arm. But,” for no matter what the foreigners (and even Bilbo himself, perhaps) believe about the injured man, caution is what has kept him alive so far and Bilbo meets the dark-haired man’s eyes squarely, “you will have to hold him down while I work.”

The other just nods. Slowly, deliberately.

“Herr Doktor, I am at your service.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is it set in Austria you ask? Uh, really only because I just visited a friend who lives in the countryside in Austria and decided that Hobbits are kind of like Austrian farmers in hospitality and good humor. xD


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Bilbo talked to Thorin Oakenshield was in fourth year, the morning after the Sorting Feast. Well, calling it ‘talking’ might be overstating it slightly. It was more like Oakenshield, a year older and almost a full head taller, loomed over him and spoke, while Bilbo, still dreaming of hitting a growth spurt one day very, very soon, stared up in silent bewilderment and nervousness. (He really wasn’t a very good Gryffindor.)

“Listen, Baggins,” began Oakenshield. He shifted from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable. “I just wanted to… to thank you.” Bilbo felt, if possible, even more anxious; seeing his raised eyebrows, Oakenshield huffed impatiently. “For what you did yesterday. You helped my nephew, when you didn’t have to, and I appreciate that.”

He spoke quickly, and rather as though the words were being pulled from his mouth in the same manner as rotten teeth. Still, it was enough for relief to dawn for Bilbo; his eyebrows lowered. Oh, _that_. The second most notorious bloke in Hogwarts (after Harry Potter, naturally) thanking him suddenly made sense.

After all, what made Thorin Oakenshield that well-known was that _everyone_ in his group of companions was in Slytherin. And not in the way that most of Bilbo’s friends at school were in Gryffindor. _Bilbo_ had made his friends _at_ Hogwarts, with others who had happened to be sorted into the same House. _Thorin’s_ companions appeared ready-made, one or two at a time every year, from the sixth year Balin Fundinsson to yesterday’s new arrival (and the sweetest, most innocent Slytherin Bilbo had ever seen), Ori Eorthscrafu. 

Yes, every year that Bilbo had been at Hogwarts (and for two years before that, he was informed), Professor McGonagall would call out a certain name, and in response a certain part of the Slytherin table would erupt in cheers and claps-- the cheering getting more rambunctious each year. The rest of the Houses would, as one, silently held their breath, wondering if this time the streak would finally be broken. But no, _Slytherin!_ was the Hat’s pronouncement each time.

Until yesterday.

“Oakenshield, Kili!” McGonagall had called.

Little Kili, grinning from ear to ear at the shouts from his friends and the curious whispers from the other students, had almost run to get the Hat placed on him. Bilbo had smiled; the boy had clearly been eager to join his yearmate Ori and his older brother, who had been waving wildly next to the ever stoic Thorin Oakenshield. After only a few seconds of deliberation as the Great Hall had held its breath, the Hat had declared its edict, and the Slytherin group had erupted in cheers once more.

Only to stop abruptly as they had processed the word.

_Gryffindor?!_

Kili’s grin had slid off his face in pieces, leaving only an ugly, lopsided grimace. He had tottered a few more steps towards Slytherin and then had turned abruptly towards the table of his new House. His walk had been slow and his head bent, Bilbo remembered, as though he had been half expecting that someone would call him back, laughing, explaining that this was all just a cruel prank. But nobody had-- nobody could. Bilbo, like half the school, had been craning to see Thorin Oakenshield’s reaction (he was generally agreed to be the leader of that pack, despite not being the oldest) and he had been struck by the blankness of that face, and by the fierceness with which Oakenshield had restrained Kili’s older brother from running after their youngest.

All around Kili, hushed whispers had spread, waves in a still pond disturbed by a stone. (A tiny stone, with very wild black hair and a heartbroken expression.) After all, a whole group of youngsters in Slytherin, all seemingly following one charismatic youth, well, that perhaps faintly echoed the long gone You-Know-Who and his followers. Best avoided of course, but thrilling in its own dangerous way to those who had no real memories of the Death Eaters. But a boy who ended up in Gryffindor when the rest of his family and friends were in Slytherin? Everyone knew who _that_ mirrored.

And Sirius Black had been glaring out of the papers since July.

Though Kili had not much resembled a mad, raging convict, nevertheless the angry muttering and suspicious glares had intensified with his every step. Muggle-borns and those otherwise ignorant had been filled in, quickly and gruesomely, by their neighbours. Bilbo had been hurriedly informed of Black’s House affiliations by Katie Bell, who had at least not exaggerated to scare him like he had seen a grinning McLaggen, two seats away, do to the small second year who had been petrified last year. Soon, everyone had been staring at the dark-haired boy as though he would personally Avada Kedavra the whole lot of them in front of the teachers.

Kili, trapped in his own private misery, had clearly not been paying an iota of attention to the whispering. When he had finally reached the Gryffindor table and looked up, he had flinched. The other first years had been staring at him in unbridled terror; his older housemates had looked only slightly less horrified. The boy had been frozen in place by confusion, by the weight of their combined gazes-- and by the fact that he had had nowhere to sit.

Nowhere to sit, that was, until Bilbo had suddenly found himself acting.

Perhaps he had been moved by pity towards that lost little boy. Or perhaps he had seen a bit of himself as a firstie -- Muggle-born and so adrift in the world his other yearmates took for granted -- in that young face. Or perhaps the Hat had sorted him fairly after all, and it was ridiculous for a brave Gryffindor to be scared of an eleven year old’s serial killer ‘potential’. Perhaps it had been a mixture of all three. Whatever the case, Bilbo had waved wildly to Kili, attracting his attention and scooting closer to Katie Bell to make sure there was room.

McLaggen had shot him a look that had clearly said that he thought Bilbo was bonkers and that he’d expound at full length on that craziness later in their dorm room. But the look of pure relief and gratitude on Kili’s face had immediately assured Bilbo that he had done the right thing.

That same expression of gratitude was now snaking its way across Thorin Oakenshield’s face, although it looked far less comfortable on him than on his nephew. Or maybe it was just the proud student’s general uncomfortableness with the situation warring with gratitude on his face, inner conflict showing plainly. Either way, Bilbo couldn’t help but stare in silent fascination.

He didn’t really know how to reply anyway. Oakenshield was Kili’s uncle, perhaps, but they clearly had only a couple years between them, so Oakenshield acting like an overprotective, thankful guardian on his relative’s behalf was throwing Bilbo for a loop. Oh, and seeing actual tenderness in the eyes of a bloke widely rumored to be the second You-Know-Who was just a little odd too.

Not that it seemed to particularly bother Oakenshield that he was bearing the brunt of the conversation. He merely continued: “It was a kind, and brave, thing to do, in particular when the rest of the school was looking at him as though he was a rabid dog.” Now a third expression fought for its spot on the fifth year’s face: rage. “He just-- They had--” A deep breath, and his face smoothed itself to the usual Slytherin blankness. “In any case, I am indebted to you.”

Bilbo started at that, his hands coming up to wave the solemn words away. But Oakenshield ploughed on determinedly before Bilbo had a chance to speak.

“I wouldn’t know what a Gryffindor would want,” He was clearly trying hard, but he couldn’t completely tamp down the small twitching sneer at the word _Gryffindor_. Bilbo contemplated gloomily that this was probably the only normal part of this whole ridiculous encounter. “But if you require anything, anything at all, just say the word. I am at your service.”

True to those words, he gave a small bow. Bilbo frowned, uncomfortable and nervous. That last sentence, coupled with _I am indebted to you_ , had had a certain disturbingly ritual tilt to them, for all that he had never heard them before. As always, being Muggleborn meant he was befuddled in the traditions of the wizarding world. Was he meant to reply? And if so, what was he meant to say? ...And in general, wasn’t this a whole lot of extra fuss over an hour or two of kindness?

But before he could think of anything fitting, or, more likely, unspeakably rude, to reply, Oakenshield nodded, seemingly satisfied, and strode off. Bilbo sighed in relief. He decided to shove the whole bizarre conversation into the furthest reaches of his mind. It wasn’t as though proud, arrogant Thorin Oakenshield would bother remembering any of this as soon as the worst rumours about his nephew died down.

\--*--*--

Bilbo stared down at the crumpled paper he had gotten earlier that day. It was lying on his kitchen table; he couldn’t hold it in his hands to reread it for the thirtieth time when they were shaking so badly with fury.

 _Dear Mr. Bilbo Baggins,_ it began, as though pretending its sender even knew what professional courtesy meant.

_You are hereby requested to attend an interview with the Muggle-Born Registration Committee on Thursday, 6th of November, at 3 pm. The meeting will take place on Level 10, in the Muggle-Born Registration Committee Courtroom. Please be aware that…_

What followed were a set of complicated, newly established, Ministry laws, providing all the ‘reasons’ and ‘justifications’ for this new assault on his liberty. Bilbo was too upset to do more than glance at them. What was the point?! _That_ was what he could not understand. What was the point of all this systematicity, of all these laws, of pretending that this ‘interview’ was right in any way? The Committee could take him at any time, from any place-- he had seen it happen to two sisters he knew ( _had known?_ the thought flashed by, as gloomy as the rest) who had worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. They had tried to resist being registered as Muggle-born in the first place, and then had gone on the run, had made it all the way to Tazmania. They had still been caught by Snatchers, within mere days.

So what was the point of being so-- so _organized_? Merlin’s beard, they were even imprisoning people in _bloody alphabetical order_!

But then he slumped against the table, his head in his hands. The fight had gone out of him; he was left a puppet with its strings cut. Bilbo knew exactly why it was done with such pretend lawfulness, of course. Their legality, and the articles in the Prophet, made it all seem so reasonable, so _justified_. Over the last few months, the polite, friendly smiles of his new coworkers at the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes had morphed into sullen glares and outright hissing at the newbie Mudblood. Just last week, Tarquin McTavish, whose niece was a Squib, had outright accused Bilbo of stealing her magic, despite Bilbo being three years old when the girl was born. If Arthur Weasley had not happened to walk by and had not forced McTavish to back off, Bilbo half-believed he would have been lynched by his coworkers, right outside of his neat little office with its freshly painted door.

_And there was nowhere to go._

Maybe if his last name had been further down the alphabet, he would have had time to plan. Maybe if there had been openings for the job he had actually wanted, Curse Breaker at Gringotts, the goblins could have helped him out. Maybe if he had somehow become best friends at school with some extremely influential Purebloods, they might have had a hidey-hole to hide him in their gigantic manors. Well, shoulda woulda coulda. He hadn’t.

And now it was Thursday, November the sixth, half two.

The only thing left to do was to face his fate with whatever dignity he had left-- whatever courage. He took a deep breath. He straightened his clothes, trying to still his shaking hands. (Still fury, or fear by now? Well, it didn’t matter anymore.)

Then, without looking back around at his tiny, cozy flat lest his nerve desert him, he strode over to the front door and yanked it open.

And gaped.

There, standing in the doorway, one arm clearly raised to knock, was one of Oakenshield’s companions, Nori Eorthscrafu. The young man's face split into a delighted, if slightly sheepish, grin as he easily maneuvered himself into Bilbo’s home and shut the door behind them.

“Oh, excellent!” said he. “You’re still here. I mean, I’m not saying we couldn’t have gotten you out if you’d been on the way to Azkaban, but, you know, it would have been _far_ more difficult.”

Bilbo continued gaping at this flurry of words. Then, with an effort, he closed his mouth and swallowed several times, rapidly. Finally, he could force the first words that came into his head past his suddenly bone dry throat.

“Shouldn’t you be at school?”

At that, Nori Eorthscrafu, unrepentant seventh year truant, rolled his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at work, Gryffindor? And yet here we are, me skiving and you about to be thrown in jail.”

That hit a little close to home.

“Alright, alright,” said Nori (everyone at Hogwarts except McGonagall had long given up on pronouncing the siblings’ last names), hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. “The point being, we’re getting you out of here, and before you ask who ‘we’ are, Dwalin is keeping an eye at the bottom of the stairwell.” Without giving Bilbo even a second to open his mouth and say something, he produced a small flask from within his robes. “And _here_ is something that will help us. Brewed it ourselves-- well, Oin brewed it himself, but I got the supplies he needed from Snape.” Disturbingly enough, Nori winked.

Bilbo frowned, processing this all (in particular the wink). “But what if you get in trouble--”

“Listen, Baggins,” interrupted Nori. “We don’t exactly have time for this. You can be a martyr by yourself, in your own free time. For now, Slytherins owe you, so drink the bloody potion.”

And finally, _finally_ , a bell of understanding rang in Bilbo’s head. _Maybe if he had somehow become best friends at school with some extremely influential Purebloods_ , indeed! It seemed he had accidentally done one better. _I am at your service_ , Oakenshield had said, and here was the delivered service.

Light-headed with relief, as well as wonder at the proud Thorin Oakenshield keeping a three and a half year old promise Bilbo himself had forgotten about, Bilbo took the potion from Nori and chugged it down immediately, not even twitching at the awful taste.

“Out of curiosity,” he said to Nori, looking down at himself and marveling at how his body was gradually morphing into one much taller, with long dark hair. “Do you happen to have a gigantic manor?”

Nori’s grin turned crafty. “Ah, well you see, Baggins, I’m afraid that’s where you come in…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, the only reason Kili didn’t get into Slytherin is because he isn’t, uh, the sharpest tool in the shed, and didn’t realize you could convince the Hat to put you in another House. That’s what a couple others in the Company had to do; otherwise loyal Dwalin would have ended up in Hufflepuff for example. :P


	3. Chapter 3

“I am at your service, Master.”

Bilbo can’t help gaping at the words, but that’s alright. His mouth was wide open already anyway. After all, he _has_ just walked into his new… home, for a lack of a better word, and almost tripped over a prostrate form in the entrance hall. Unconsciously, Bilbo twists around to check if the man before him could have been talking to someone else. But no, there is only small and unassuming Bilbo standing in the doorway, with just one neat but not too extravagant suitcase propped on the wall next to him. (The rest of his lovingly packed things are still in the car.)

It's not like Bilbo isn’t familiar with the concept of slavery. Sure, it’s unlikely that anyone in his firmly middle-class circle of family and friends will ever be rich enough to even dream of owning a slave. But he’s seen them around, on the street and trailing after clients at the workplace. Not to mention, one of the chief reasons why he has been asked to housesit this gigantic estate while his boss, and one of the richest men in the country, Mr. Smaug, is out of the country is, in fact, because of the dozen or so slaves on the property. So yes, he technically should have been prepared for this.

It’s just that it hadn’t _really_ hit him that he, Bilbo Baggins, would actually, literally have anything to _do_ with slavery until he saw the man in the entrance hall, kneeling on the cold marble floor, head pressed to the ground and arms twisted to be clasped behind his back.

 _Master_ , he mouths, a silent, bewildered echo. Surely Mr. Smaug is the master and not him..? But then he recalls his employer’s assurances that the slaves would treat Bilbo with the exact courtesies Mr. Smaug is treated with.

Ah. Well.

Bilbo can’t imagine coming home to a person prostrating himself every day.

And speaking of which... he flushes a little; the man has not so much as twitched the whole time Bilbo has been gathering his scattered thoughts. Which is quite disturbing, actually. So he opens his mouth, hoping that something smart will come out.

It doesn’t.

“Er, thank you,” Bilbo says and demonstrates once again why he is better at the written word than the spoken. “Please do get up though, that doesn’t look very comfortable…”

At that, the man finally raises his head. He sits back on his heels, back straight, hands still clasped behind him. Bilbo can see him properly now: too long hair frames a too thin face. He looks careworn and gaunt, more sinewy than muscular. A prototypical slave, in short. But -- for one brief instant, his clear blue eyes meet Bilbo’s. And Bilbo stops breathing: there is sheer, dark _rage_ burning there. He sees suddenly what the man at his feet should have been -- strong and haughty and full of wrath for the undeserving.

But then the moment is gone, and the man is once more reduced to a pitiful figure, the typical slave. His face is smooth as stone, and his gaze is blank and lowered to the floor.

Bilbo very sincerely hopes he isn’t murdered by midnight.

“Well,” he stammers, valiantly pretending nothing is very, very wrong. “Good. So. Hello. My name is Bilbo Baggins, here to, er, live here. For now. Anyhow, what about you? That is, what’s your name?”

The man doesn’t even twitch at Bilbo making a complete fool of himself; it is enough for Bilbo to wonder whether he should doubt what he had just seen.

“Thorin, Master,” the slave says.

His throat sounds a little raw, as though he doesn’t speak very often. Or as though it hurts. Which is quite disturbing too. Bilbo hopes fervently that Thorin is just recovering from a really bad cold. ...From kneeling on the cold marble floor. ...Which he is still doing. Bilbo could smack himself. He has been charged with taking care of matters on the estate, and here he is, five minutes through the door, messing it up already. It wouldn’t do for anybody to get sick just because Bilbo is a little, er, flustered, after all. Hurriedly, he offers Thorin a hand to pull him up.

And Thorin flinches.

It is a wild, uncontrollable, full-body recoil from Bilbo’s small, soft hand.

In his 34 years of life, no one has ever, _ever_ thought Bilbo to be someone to be flinched from.

Until now.

The thought hits Bilbo suddenly, and it sends him lurching back a step, as though mirroring the actions of the slave. Horror is plain on his face and it constricts his heart. But that thought is not what sends a hot wave of shame through him.

It is the fact that Thorin has already shifted back into position.

His whole body is still, tense in anticipation; he is plainly waiting for the other shoe to fall. And Bilbo can’t believe he was scared of Thorin for even a second -- not now when it is so obvious who is really terrified around here. How could he have even _considered_ that one brief moment of anger could outweigh the awful subordination that has been instilled in the slave’s every breath? Bilbo curses himself -- for accepting Mr. Smaug’s invitation, for turning a blind eye for so many years, even for not taking Gandalf’s hand fifteen years ago…

But there is still time, at least a little of it. It is a year until Mr. Smaug is back; Bilbo has a whole _year_. He will have to be brave now, he realizes, if only because there surely isn’t enough fear in this house to go around.

“Come now,” he says softly. “I just wanted to help you up.”

He reaches down again, but this time slowly, patiently. Thorin considers the hand for a little while. (Or at least Bilbo thinks he considers the hand; it’s hard to guess what Thorin’s thinking.) Then he just as slowly, carefully reaches up to take it. Bilbo helps him to his feet.

It is a start.

\--*--*--

“I am at your service, Master.”

Thorin hates those words. There are many things he hates about the last twenty years of his life, of course. (Why wouldn’t he? There isn’t an inch of him left that has been left whole.) But after all these years, it is still the obeisances, the degradations, the sheer _humiliation_ of it all that he despises the most. He can’t stop hating it -- if he stops, he will lose a part of himself he is clinging to only by the tips of his bloody, ragged fingers. He would rather take the beatings than this.

(He _has_ taken beatings rather than this.)

But the stranger -- his current, temporary master, and Thorin reminds himself savagely to not ever forget that; slip ups in the mind mean slip ups at the worst possible times in real life -- is new. He is new and there is some small chance at least that Thorin might not fuck this up immediately. And if Thorin does all he should and offers all he should, the others might get a small break. It is a thought to hold to.

He concentrates on those who are worst off: Gloin who hasn’t eaten in three days and Bofur who is still muzzled -- as though he were a wild _beast_ for God’s sake! -- and Fili who hasn’t seen sunlight for a fortnight. The keys to their delivery are held by the man in front of him, both figuratively and literally. So Thorin counts himself lucky for the first time for just how debasing this pose is, and lets the cool marble floor to be the only witness to his emotions. He waits.

And waits.

Surely he's been waiting too long now? Why were no orders issued immediately? Has something gone wrong already? What if --

“Er, thank you,” the new master finally speaks (though the words are so bizarre Thorin isn’t sure speaking is an improvement). “Please do get up though, that doesn’t look very comfortable…”

At last, a command, and Thorin obeys immediately, kneeling up, back straight. (Is standing permitted?) He knows he shouldn’t, but he cannot help himself. For one moment, he allows his gaze to wander up and take in his new lord from bottom to top.

The figure of a prototypical librarian greets his eyes: comfortable clothes; soft hands with small, callused fingers; a round, open face. The sort of person to whom the words _that doesn’t look very comfortable_ would come naturally, in fact, realizes Thorin as the words sink in. Uncomfortable? _Uncomfortable?!_ As though a little discomfort in the knees was the worst part of the last twenty years! Of the last twenty _minutes_! Is this man _serious_? There can only be two explanations, Thorin decides furiously: either their new master is a sadistic ogre, playing mind games and hiding his malice behind an unassuming appearance, or he is an idiot.

And in that moment, their eyes meet.

That clear, bright gaze snaps Thorin out of his madness. Too late, as always, he remembers to drop his eyes to the ground. His heart is pounding -- have his thoughts shown? -- but no immediate slap or kick follows. It seems he has escaped, for now. (And he hates himself a little for the light-headedness of his relief.)

Instead of punishment, the new master continues abruptly: “Well. Good. So. Hello. My name is Bilbo Baggins, here to, er, live here. For now. Anyhow, what about you? That is, what’s your name?”

The question is as confusing as the earlier thanks. Why would he even care? What is his _angle_? The thoughts swirl in his head; still, Thorin has learned it is best to answer promptly.

“Thorin, Master.”

There is silence again.

His new master is shifting from foot to foot, an unconscious nervous tick that makes Thorin suddenly notice his shoes. They are brown and slightly scuffed. Clearly, they are not Master Baggins’ best shoes -- Smaug would never allow one of his employees to greet clients like that -- but they make Thorin feel irrationally bitter anyway. If there is one positive thing to be said for Smaug, after all, it is that he dresses his role (of a filthy rich, decadent, bastard). Thorin does not look forward to being beaten by a man in a sweater vest and slightly scuffed shoes.

Suddenly, breaking through his thoughts completely, a hand is thrust in front of him.

And Thorin flinches.

There is a loud buzzing in his ears, and a hot wave of shame floods him. He _flinched_ , damn it, and the blow hadn’t even landed yet. Thorin tells himself it was because he was startled, because he had just been thinking of punishment, but that is a lie. He flinched because he is a coward, a coward who should be grateful his father and grandfather aren’t alive to see him come to this. He flinched because the last twenty years have changed him, awfully and irreversibly. He flinched because he is weak. 

And because he is smart enough to realize that this is all he is good for anymore, Thorin slowly, dully pushes himself back into position. He thinks of Gloin, and Bofur, and Fili, and the rest of them. He straightens his back. But he can’t help tensing nonetheless.

He hates his traitorous body.

But for the third time, a voice breaks into his thoughts. It is soft this time, and the previous note of awkwardness in it is now replaced by something else.

“Come now,” Master Baggins says. “I just wanted to help you up.”

A hand approaches him again, but gingerly this time, as if Thorin were a wild animal that might spook. As if he were a wild animal that might be tamed with gentleness, instead of the whip. A little bewildered, a little afraid, Thorin allows himself to believe the new note in his master’s voice is kindness, and lets himself be slowly guided to his feet.

It is a start.


	4. Chapter 4

_She must surely be the most beautiful woman Bilbo has ever seen -- long, dark hair flowing gently around her perfect face, an unknowable heartache in her eyes so deep that Bilbo could drown in it. This is a dream, of course, but it is a dream of unimaginable beauty and despair. And when the woman reaches out a hand to Bilbo, Bilbo cannot help reaching back. Anything to help ease her pain for even a second. Anything._

Her sneakers pounded the pavement and she slowed and skidded as she turned the corner into an alleyway -- but she didn’t fall, not this time. She’s gotten a little better at this whole thing, she decided, and her arms windmilled wildly as she regained her balance. She sped up again.

The dark, grimy alleyway looked rarely used, and it was late enough in the evening that there’d be few people around in either case, so Bilbo risked it.

“Thorin?” she muttered between pants.

As always, there was no immediate reply. But the growling and crashing noises behind her swelled, and she swore she could literally feel her pursuers breathing down her neck, and she simply couldn’t _go_ any faster. This was the best chance she was going to get!

“Dammit, Thorin!” Bilbo threw all caution to the wind and bellowed the name with what little was left of her breath. “A little help here!”

And finally, _finally_ , Thorin deigned to respond.

“I'm at your service, I’m sure,” the queen’s cool, arrogant drawl echoed in Bilbo’s ears, and it was amazing how someone without a corporeal body could make it so crystal clear that she was rolling her eyes.

Bilbo spared a moment to answer with her own mental eyeroll -- it wasn’t like she was doing all this for her health, thank you very much. But so far none of the other three she’d rescued from the monsters’ paws have been particularly good at the whole ‘grateful’ thing either, and Bilbo had stopped expecting it. (At least Thorin had answered relatively promptly this time.)

So instead, Bilbo dug her heels in and stopped suddenly, pivoting on one foot to face her enemies. She couldn’t help her instinctive flinch: four weeks into this monster hunting business, and the hulking, ferocious figures she faced still freaked her out. What would the scene look like to any passersby? Would they be able to see the three monsters charging at her, or would they see only the short, scared teenage girl, school uniform in disarray, facing off against empty space?

...And those were exactly the type of questions she did _not_ have time for. Bilbo yelped and ducked. A crooked sword swung in a wide, sloppy arc over her head. Fine warriors they were not. Then again, neither was Bilbo.

But Thorin _was_.

One hand went to the chain she wore, always, around her neck, and she pulled it free from underneath her blouse. There were already four keys attached on it -- and there was space for nine more -- and she reached automatically for the one most battered, most bent and scratched. And Thorin had given her permission already, so it was quick and easy to reach and _grasp_ \-- and there it was -- a quietly murmured _jund_ and her body was no longer her own.

It was becoming simpler every time to cooly watch as the sword and shield-branch appeared in her hands, as her arms smoothly countered the blows and striked back, as her body wove between the sharp blades.

It was becoming simpler not too squawk in terror, to trust Thorin to get them both through this.

(There was a reason she used Thorin’s key more often than the others combined -- Ori was almost as awkward and scared as Bilbo herself, Kili was just too horribly enthusiastic as she danced Bilbo’s body out of the way of the swords, and Dwalin’s grinning bloodthirstiness honestly scared Bilbo more than the monsters. No matter how haughty and cold Thorin off the battlefield was, Thorin in battle was… dependable. Efficient.

Not that she’d ever consciously admit it to the queen -- no sense in inflating her already swollen head.)

So yes, reflected Bilbo as her body dispassionately decapitated one of the monsters and it vanished as though it never was, it was becoming almost unnervingly simpler.

But.

But, there was _one thing_ that Bilbo simply couldn’t get used to.

Why, why oh why, did calling on Thorin get her not only a cool, scary sword, but also _a miniskirt_??

Not that she had anything against skirts -- her school uniform was alright as school uniforms go, and she had a couple cute dresses hanging in her closet for her days off. But for fighting?! Facing those creepy things was bad enough, why did she have to do that in these extremely awkward clothes?! Bilbo wasn’t sure what was the worst part was: the bright yellow miniskirt, or the random ribbons, or the way her short hair had suddenly grown two extra long braids to frame her face, or -- if Thorin wasn’t busy using her body to skewer another monster right now she would have flushed a deep tomato color -- the lack of any shoes or stockings that, by the way, clearly showed off her shamefully hairy toes, which, yes, had little ribbons plaited into them.

Just-- why?!

...Recalling the brightly twinkling eyes of the mysterious old grandma with the floppy grey hat who had slyly slipped her Thorin’s key in the first place, Bilbo realized morosely that she probably knew the answer to that question. The sheer grimness of the response, _”It’s funnier that way,”_ was enough to let her hope for a split second that Thorin would let her get impaled. Or, you know, at least get a ribbon sliced off.

But no, of course perfect, majestic, Thorin dispatched the last monster without even a stray drop of blood left to stain the embarrassing getup. Then she did a few meticulous cool down stretches.

“You know,” said Thorin abruptly -- and it _was_ Thorin speaking, though how she managed that with Bilbo’s vocal chords Bilbo hadn’t the slightest idea. “I do believe your body is getting easier to work with. Keep this up and we’ll get you some great abs yet.”

The fact that she clearly meant this encouragingly just meant that Bilbo’s groan was all the louder.

And the groan quickly transformed into a wail of despair as Thorin, who didn’t understand shame, decided it would be beneficial to jog all the way back home.

_She is a Queen from a different world, a Queen who has seen more in her long years than Bilbo ever has and ever will. It is unimaginable that a high school girl could have anything at all to offer once such as her -- but she will try. She will try, she swears it. The Queen smiles back, grateful beyond words. Their reaching hands clasp each other tight._

_...It is perhaps lucky that Bilbo does not remember this first encounter with Thorin. It would be highly unproductive for her to smother either one of them with a pillow, out of sheer embarrassment._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shortness + lateness of this! >.> To make up for it, please accept a [stupid bonus scribble of Bilbo in her costume](http://sailorfish.tumblr.com/post/72807314352/a-doodle-of-biibo-as-a-magical-girl-from-a-stupid) ahaha...
> 
> According to the [Khuzdul Dictionary](http://www.scribd.com/doc/98387422/Khuzdul-Dictionary-E-K-v01-JUN12), _jund_ means 'open'. ...All gratuitous _Japanese_ can be added in the privacy of our heads ;)


End file.
